A draft - revisited.

After leaving my home for a year abroad and living in various towns/cities in Ontario, I've returned to Hamilton. I'm not sure exactly what it is, but there's something about this city that makes me want to blog. Before posting new 'comments', here's a post I drafted over a year ago.

I've been newly inspired to blog. haha

A friend recently contacted me with an idea about writing to compliment the otherwise formality of science writing; thus began Postdoc at Large. Expanding on her first entry, imagination and function are tied in the blogger to shape the blog accordingly. This idea that the blog is an amorphous vehicle of seemingly infinite electronic possibility isn't new yet as a trend I'm aware some would argue it has past its use. Blogs may be going the way of the magazine or newspaper but I continue to suggest it as a simple way to practice one's voice. Small circulation - amongst an intimate group of peers - have historically been fruitful if we draw upon the diverse examples of Katherine Phillips' poetry and the beginnings of the avant garde poetry in the US.

That said, time has effected both examples differently: Phillip's poetry, accomplished and well circulated amongst the literati of her time, was forgotten or purposely buried by literature's boy's club (according to my colourful, thrift-shop loving, intimidatingly knowledgeable professor of fin de siecle literature), whereas the avant garde went (sadly) mainstream.

Returning to Postdoc at Large, I am cheered and encouraged when those around me start to flex their fingers. Recently, I attended my first workshop at Asian Arts Freedom School and though I am a pretender of sorts - being just a hair over the age limit - it was refreshing to be around youth who were unencumbered by the ever buzzing noise of academia whispering incessantly of the need to produceproduceproduce 'great work,' 'original work,' 'critical work.' If I had chosen graduate school with the thoughts that my writing might improve, I would have been very disappointed. There is still some soreness, because idealism and hope never seem to die, but realistically grad school has seemed less about sharing than I imagined.

I'm still writing papers and trying to wrap up this MA while helping run a business in downtown Hamilton but cultural studies, the arts and Hamilton are supremely complimentary topics! I'm looking forward to the intersections which will inspire me to post a comment.

An "Important and Reoccuring Sub-plot:" Hornblower plays Affectionate Husband

The mirror caught Maria's reflection, and he forced himself back into the world again. she was standing pathetically looking at him, and he put down his razor, and took up the towel ans wiped the lather from his mouth. "Not a kiss since yesterday!" he said. "Maria, darling, don't you think you've been neglecting me?" ...And while he kissed her he thought of Atropos riding to her anchor out there in the river, and despised himself as a hypocritical lover." (Hornblower and the "Atropos")

John Ford visited me at the store a few days ago. When I told him that Hornblower had become a 'real' captain he announced that he skips all the "mushy parts."

And for the first three books I didn't really understand what John was talking about; this was a series about a man in love with the sea (even though it made him violently sick and frequently led to mortal danger) and service. It was a Romance with the Sea - surely - but mushy?

That was, until Horatio got married to a sensitive, homely innkeeper's daughter. The first woman to show him kindness during a time of hard luck, Marie changes Horatio - military genius and gangly man of action - to Horry.

A pivotal point for sure, I haven't a clue why Forrester writes Horatio into Marie's stereotypically feminine arms. I could dismiss this mis-match as evidence that Forrester, like SO many male writers, simply can't imagine a 3D woman but there is a little authorial voice that peeks out once in a while to vote against such an easy dismissal. Either way, for all his lack of insight into the feminine mind I am in love with, and facinated by, this new dimension of Horatio as a BIG OL' FAKER.

I'm loving Horatio Hornblower.

Quizzes count as reading right? And doing this Superhero Lover Quiz did induce me to post...

John Ford. We met when I told him he had the name of a poet.

I complain a lot. And I do so without prejudice. But bitching sometimes leads to good things.

John Ford and I met at the store about 8 months ago when he came in to buy his Players light large regular and his reading time snacks: two chocolate bars. John's been coming in for years but it's only after bitching about the bookclub that he came into focus as more than a customer.

This happens a lot at this store. Chatting away as usual to anyone and everyone - to pass the time and due to curiosity - I realized awhile ago that my regulars and I talked about the details of our lives in a surprisingly neighbourly way. Val brought us a box of fabulous Dundas chocolates for Christmas this year and the outpouring of real sympathy (the unexpected kind, one of the best kind) for our family last year brought this fact home. But we talked without ever sharing our names. When you can't say 'thank you' because you can't put a face (or a regular purchase) to a card signed "Samantha Lowe and Family" you know something isn't right.

Anyways this is all beside the point.

John Ford, from what I have gathered, is a 55+ divorced guy who has lived alone for some time now. He would in and buy his chocolate/cigs. I'd bitch about wanting to read more. And he'd recount stories of reading Cannery Row (Steinbeck) alone outside his knee high tent in a family campground under the old mountains of in Alberta surrounded in a sea of campers and trailers. ("Haha! I freaked out all the family campers laughing. Parents probably told their kids to avoid the crazy man.")

While talking, I'd reached under the counter and pulled out my copy of a book (this time Paksanarrion) for him. He'd pass over yet another book and tell me to hurry up with his copy of a book (Horatio Hornblower because there were twenty-odd more to go) because I was slow reader "for someone who went to university." Then, more often than not, he'd run home (or to Chapters) and return with a book we mentioned.

I don't know much about him except that he has that blue collar humour i love but with a literary twist. He has his confessions too. It's these whispers over the register that keep me going. For John, he can't help but think a girl at Chapters, a girl after his own bookish heart, is 'an ugly mongoloid.' He always reports this with a sad shake of his head, as though it is too bad.

As an 'Asian' I should be horrified but it makes me giggle - the audacity - even to rewrite it here. He knows he's being bad.

Anyways, after much give and take, John and I have founded our own little Scenic Bookclub! It's not official but easy and fruitful. He's introduced me to Steinbeck and loaned me his precious Hornblower series. And I've lent him all my old Goodkind and G.G. Kay. John's a man after my own 13-year-old-boy's bookish heart but he's completely uninterested in my beloved Austen or E.B. Browning.

Oh, and the club is growing. I'm also reading Gwynne Dyer's Future: Tense (The Coming World Order) lent to me by other customer. Hm. I've got to learn his name.

Glad It's Dead

This being in my twenties business is just messed up. Cliches of searching for some path (or another) and being lost and making stupid choices and frittering away time (it seems) are all true for me and this book blog is no exception.

Yeah, I know. I haven't written in months and I'm not even sure Kara and Eileen are checking up on this site. (Oy! Eileen! Kara! Are you guys awake?)

Committing to writing often about something i love to do seemed a no-brainer; but somehow the blog always ended up being at the bottom of the priority list. So, I thought a book club was in order. More satisfying than writing to an audience of 0 to 3, a book club seemed like the perfect solution for the bored, book loving, hungry for discussion and book talk crowd.

But the club floundered, drowning to death today after a score of 1 and 1/2 books in 5 months. PAH-thetic.

The formula for a successful bookclub seemed simple. A+ B = success when A = reading the text and when B = a want to discuss the text. Simple. But somehow, in our group of casual readers other than a rare individual or two, few of the members seemed interested in actually talking about the books.

Truth be told my frustation with the club has been fairly transparent since day 2. Why couldn't we, readers in our individual right, come together as a group (commit to a single night once every 2 months even!) even when plied with wine and finger treats?

I still can't figure it out.

Long story short, the book club died today to a collective sigh of relief.

Just finished reading "The Cunning Man" by Robertson Davies. It took me almost 2 months to read the 514 pages. Let me give you a sense of what reading this novel is like. Imagine trudging through 20 pages of the most pretentious, over-educated, self-important, could-never-possibly-occur-ever dialogue, just to get to a shiny kernel of truth revealed in 3 sentences. That's what this novel was like. Although it has wonderful subtleties, it is overall not an enjoyable read, but that said it has the deeper touches that make it "literary", at least in a Chapters/Indigo kind of classification.

An example just off the top of my head, the story tells the story of a man's life, from childhood through to old age. And the childhood seems to be full and rich, while the intervening years speed up quickly. This mirrors most people's experience of life, childhood and youth seeming to take so long, while our lives rush us older through the next years.

And the characters are all "failures." There are no heros in this novel. When you get to the end, when everyone is old, all anyone can see is what they didn't do. It doesn't end on some artificial high. As the saying goes, "Every man's life is a tragedy."

It's not recommended reading unless you're going to be in a bomb shelter for several weeks and you need something that'll get you through hours of nothingness.

WARNING: It is extremely likely that this blog will degenerate to incoherent ranting by the end for reasons that will become apparent.

Our latest book club read was The Power of One by Bryce Courtenay. I know a couple of people who cite this as their favourite book of all time, and combined with the naked man featured on the cover, I was intrigued. I think that this book generated the most discussion yet in that there were disputes over the underlying motives of some characters, etc. I would say that while I enjoyed this book overall, I also had some major problems with it.

I was really enjoying the book at the beginning but slowly started getting more and more frustrated. So much shit happens to this poor kid that it just starts to become almost too much. I stated thinking "For Christ sake, will someone please just give this kid a sucker?". Fortunatley, someone does. But this heralds the beginning of the "too perfect" portion of the book. Peekay is brilliant, athletic and can do no wrong. But what bothered me the most may be due to my own flaws and short comings. It seemed like all the lessons he learned were by things that happened around him or to him, not through things that he did himself. For example, the major theme of the book is his disdain for racism and his emergence as the Tadpole Angel - chief of all tribes. But he learned this hate for racism from watching and never partaking. Isn't it likely that at some point in his life he would have succumbed to peer pressure and used a racial slur or put someone down? And perhaps his regret of this moment would help to shape his future opinions? How likely is it that in an environment like 1930s South Africa, a kid would never falter in his views? While I was pondering this I was remebering one of my own experiences. In middle school everyone picked on this one obese girl. Since everyone else was doing it, I got pressured in to joining in and eventually shouted "Tremor!" as she walked by and mimiced the ground shaking beneath her feet. I immediately felt awful. Ever since then I've been painfully aware that you choose how you treat people. Does everyone have an experience like this or am I composed of particularly weak moral character? It seemed that an incident like this would have made Peekay's morality more believable for me.

We also hotly debated the character of Geel Piet - a black prisoner who acts as Peekay's first boxing coach. My impression of Geel was that while he was fond of Peekay, he was a product of the prison system. He had never learned to trust and in turn was not trustworthy. The prison had taught him to always leave your true self hidden. As I was reading, there were a couple phrases that made me think Peekay saw this too, and that his observation of this was one of the lessons he learned. The idea that people are shaped by their environment and how they're treated. But some of the girls in the book club didn't see it this way at all. I guess that's the beauty of books - different people get different things out of the books.

Now here comes the ranting. While I admit that this wasn't my favourite book ever, i have developed a relationship with it over the last couple weeks and respect the story for what it is. Perhaps this is the reason that I felt so personally offended when we rented the 1992 movie version of the Power of One. I understand that it is sometimes not possible to fit every phrase and event of a book into a movie, but should one not at least attempt to maintain the spirit of the book?! They even changed what the "power of one" is! They completely eliminated the character that singly handedly provided Peekay with both his single obsessive ambition as well as his lifelong personal mantra - "First with the head, then with the heart." Then, and this is the truly horrible part, then they added a love interest and killed her off to fuel Peekay's motivation (and also some war/fight that didn't make any sense....I dunno I was not paying attention and fairly far down the road to drunk at this point)! That absolutely ruins the point of what Peekay was all about. So singular was his goal to be boxing champion that he never would have let a girl get in the way (he sees her while he's boxing, which results in his knock down - stupidity!). His lifelong nemesis is a guy named "the Judge" who tortures Peekay as a child and the culmination of this occurs in the final pages of the book when Peekay meets him again. No mention of this in the movie. In fact, the torturing at the hands of the Judge seems inconsequential, especially when you consider that it was the major driving force behind the rest of his life. The move barely takes the time to establish relationships so you never understand why the death of Granpa Chook or Geel Piet would even be significant and I didn't even notice if they bothered to kill off Doc!

What is the point of making a book into a movie if you so severely alter the spirit of it, that it becomes almost unrecognizable?! Did they even read the book? Lesson learned though, renting the movie is NOT the same as reading the book ;)